Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Switzerland and Austria: Vol. XVI. 1876–79.
Lake of Geneva
By Thomas Moore (1779–1852)’T
His last and best, when I ran on,
Anxious to reach that splendid view
Before the daybeams quite withdrew;
And feeling as all feel, on first
Approaching scenes where, they are told,
Such glories on their eyes shall burst
As youthful bards in dreams behold.
’T was distant yet, and, as I ran,
Full often was my wistful gaze
Turned to the sun, who now began
To call in all his outpost rays,
And form a denser march of light,
Such as beseems a hero’s flight.
O, how I wished for Joshua’s power
To stay the brightness of that hour!
But no,—the sun still less became,
Diminished to a speck, as splendid
And small as were those tongues of flame
That on the Apostles’ heads descended!
This last, intensest gleam of light—
Suddenly, through the opening road,
The valley burst upon my sight!
That glorious valley, with its lake,
And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling,
Mighty, and pure, and fit to make
The ramparts of a Godhead’s dwelling!
Of Israel think the assembled world
Will stand upon that awful day
When the ark’s light, aloft unfurled,
Among the opening clouds shall shine,
Divinity’s own radiant sign!
Highly Mont Blanc! thou wert to me,
That minute, with thy brow in heaven,
As sure a sign of Deity
As e’er to mortal gaze was given.
Nor ever, were I destined yet
To live my life twice o’er again,
Can I the deep-felt awe forget,—
The ecstasy that thrilled me then!
And life beyond this mortal hour,—
Those mountings of the soul within
At thoughts of Heaven,—as birds begin
By instinct in the cage to rise,
When near their time for change of skies,—
That proud assurance of our claim
To rank among the Sons of Light,
Mingled with shame—O, bitter shame!—
At having risked that splendid right
For aught that earth, through all its range
Of glories, offers in exchange!—
’T was all this, at the instant brought,
Like breaking sunshine, o’er my thought,—
’T was all this, kindled to a glow
Of sacred zeal, which, could it shine
Thus purely ever, man might grow,
Even upon earth, a thing divine,
And be once more the creature made
To walk unstained the Elysian shade!